


Immortalised

by polexia



Series: Semicolon Project [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little bit of fluff, AU, Gen, Mentioned Suicide Attempt, Triggers, Warnings of blood, kinda cutesy, mentioned self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 14:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17768786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polexia/pseuds/polexia
Summary: Dean Winchester is pissed. His boss is forcing him to sit in a booth for seven hours while the town celebrates whatever this street fair is meant to celebrate. Then he gets the chance to help. And it’s all so damn worth it.





	Immortalised

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags and skip ahead to the end notes if you'd like to know to what the tags refer.

With a sigh, Dean Winchester leans against the wall. He is bored out of his mind; only two people have approached the booth in the last hour, and both requested Henna dye. He has no problem with Henna work, but… it isn’t the same as actual ink and a tattoo gun. He hates that he let his boss bully him into manning the booth for the night, but between the threat of being fired and the fact he actually likes his job, he acquiesced to Crowley’s demands. He has to admit, though: Not being around the large crowd of people attending the street fair is far better than the alternative of actually being out there. He isn’t shy or anxious around people, not really ー he just prefers to be selective about who he chooses to spend his time with.

He grabs his phone off the small counter sitting beside him, typing out a message.

 **To: Samsquatch (19:55)** _Dude. This sucks. Bring me food. Im hungry_

 **From: Samsquatch (20:02)** _omw_

His brother shows up not even ten minutes later. A white paper bag is in his hand, the large red and black letters on the side letting Dean know Sam’s just come from The Roadhouse. Sam passes the bag over without speaking, perching on the small table with a soft sigh. Dean is certain that Sam already planned on visiting him, whether Crowley permitted it or not; for once, Dean is grateful for his little brother’s presence. He hands Sam his chicken wrap before pulling out his own burger. They eat in companionable silence, Dean only speaking when he needs a napkin to wipe the grease from his chin. While Sam generally avoids food that would clog his arteries, Dean relishes them. He spent too much of their childhoods skipping meals so that Sam always had a full belly. Between the constant moving from town to town and lack of funds from their dad not holding down steady jobs, spending what little money they had on booze and bonds, Dean grew up far too fast. He was Sam’s main caretaker by the time he was ten ー has been ever since, due to John’s parenting, or lack thereof.

Dean cocks his head when he hears a loud cheer coming from outside the booth. Sam raises an eyebrow, the question plain in his eyes. Dean shrugs in response and pops the last bite of his burger into his mouth. He’s just finished dragging a rough, brown napkin across his face and hands when the heavy curtain is pushed aside as an arm juts through the hole in the wall. He hurries to scrub his hands at the sink, being sure to get soap up to his elbows and under his fingernails before rinsing it all with water hot enough to redden his skin. He turns slightly, plucks out a few paper towels from the dispenser on the countertop. Sam has a pair of pale blue latex gloves on, another pair held between his fingers. Dean slips the gloves on and sits in the padded chair. The ledge digs painfully into his abdomen as he shifts in his seat, but he ignores it in favour of checking the light box. Lightbulb A lights up, and Dean smiles to himself. Finally, he thinks as he pulls the tray of sterilised prepackaged equipment toward him.

He gazes down at the exposed arm in front of him with the hope of having a spark of inspiration. Dark, coarse hair curls on the side of the limb that’s pressing against the counter. Neatly-trimmed nails, no sign of dirt in the half-circle edges… Dean can still hear the cheering and applause outside, but it grows fainter as he focuses more closely. His eyes widen; the pale skin is marred by paler, thin lines crisscrossing across the wrist, and there, at the base of the palm, is a jagged, rough circle of flesh ー a scar. His heart clenches in his chest.

Dean can only imagine what caused this person to mark up their skin like this. He tries to drag his eyes away from the sight, but he can’t. He _knows_ these lines, He knows these scars far too well. He was only sixteen when he first caught a glimpse of lines like this. John Winchester had been on another bender, gone for at least a week, leaving Dean alone with Sammy in a rundown motel with no money, no food, and no way of getting either. Dean had stepped outside for a quick smoke off a cigarette he’d managed to convince some rich asshole to toss his way. He had just come back inside and shut the door when he heard the loud thump from the bathroom. Bile had nearly succeeded in its attempt to escape his stomach when he saw Sammy, his Sammy, sprawled in the bathtub, unconscious, the shirt he’d stolen from Dean soaked with blood; shards of mirrored glass cluttered the floor, crunching under Dean’s feet as he raced to Sam’s side. He’d screamed ー a raw, primal, terrified scream ー as he yanked Sam tightly to his chest. His hands fumbled to stem the flow, he begged for Sammy to be all right, c’mon, Sammy, don’t do this to me, don’t leave me. He still doesn’t remember much of that night beyond the absolute fear of losing his baby brother, being unable to breathe without risk of hyperventilating, eventually passing out with Sam pulled against him, and waking up late the next morning to Bobby asleep in the bed across the room. Sam was sitting up in the bed next to Dean; he chewed on his lower lip as he stared down at the row of butterfly bandages on his forearm. John was nowhere in sight.

Dean draws in an unsteady breath and studiously avoids looking at Sam. He can feel the look that Sam is giving him. Dean shakes his head, picks up the antiseptic wipes and a single-blade razor, and gets to work. He didn’t plan on adding anything other than the simple design that he’s seen everywhere on the internet over the last few weeks, but hearing a voice speaking from the other side of the curtain changes his mind.

“Castiel, you all right?”

“Of course he is, Red, look at him. He’s taking this like a boss.”

The person Dean is tattooing ー Castiel ー doesn’t respond. The name sounds like something Dean remembers his mother saying when he was younger. He wracks his brain as he wipes excess ink off Castiel’s skin. _Cassiel_. An angel. He can recall the way he’d laughed at the name, thought it was a funny name, when he was five. He bites his bottom lip and bends over the wrist further, taking extra care to make the tattoo perfect. There’s a restlessness under his skin, an anxiousness that burns through his blood. He forces his hand to remain steady, to not shake in the process of adding black lines to cover the ones already there. Finally, he finishes, and he stares down at the dark ink amongst an expanse of pale skin. The semicolon covers the scar that mars the skin, the detailed wings curving inwards at the end as if to protect the symbol. Dean coughs quietly and reaches for a pen, tightens his grip on the wrist when Castiel tries pulling away. Dean slides the tip gently over the flesh of Castiel’s palm until the other lets his fingers fall open. Dean doesn’t second-guess himself, doesn’t hesitate, just simply writes his phone number with _If you wan to talk_ and releases Castiel.

Sam places a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he peels off his gloves. “You okay, man?” he asks softly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Did you see…?”

“I saw, and… Dean, what you did, what you inked on him… That was amazing.”

Dean shrugs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Hopefully it helps.”

“I think it will.”

Dean has just dropped the equipment wrappers, gloves, and used paper towels into the trash bin when a rough, gravelly voice filters through the curtain.

“Uh… thank you. It’s perfect.”

Dean smiles widely before turning away from the hole in the wall. He doesn’t care if nobody else comes to the window for anything all during the rest of the night. Hearing Castiel’s appreciation for the tattoo, feeling like Dean has actually helped someone, that’s the best thing that could have had happened to him. And it more than makes up for Crowley forcing him to sit in the booth for seven hours.

**Author's Note:**

>  **triggers** :
> 
> go to [this link](https://www.rot13.com/) and input this code:  (or hover your mouse over text).


End file.
